


Call Me, Call Me

by AndyAO3



Series: Angry Marshmallows and Sad Robots [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Gen, Prologue, Sad Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:36:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndyAO3/pseuds/AndyAO3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first spark in a young synth's soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me, Call Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I've been poking at for a few days now. Unfortunately, AO3 fucked the formatting to hell and back. I got it readable, but it's not quite pretty. Bit of a kludge-fix really. This can probably be applied to any story's Harkness, but in particular it applies to him as I write him. I wanted to show the mindset he started with, the depth of the brainwashing that the Institute does.

A3-21 was the best of his line.

The partly-organic nature of synths made it so that, in spite of all the Institute did to limit them, each unit was inherently unique. Quirks of their production made some more efficient or productive or obedient than others. Those same quirks could also lead to faults. Errors. Malfunctions. Such errors were why the SRB existed, and such quirks were what had made A3-21 very, very good at what he did.

Well, that and any number of tweaks that Zimmer had done to his programming, working in conjunction with the scientists over in Robotics, but the why and how didn't mean much to A3-21 then. All that mattered was that he operated beyond what was projected as peak efficiency for a Courser of his type, and that meant he was noticed. Being noticed led to recognition, and recognition soon became praise.

A3-21 liked being praised, inasmuch as he liked anything. He couldn't see why other synths would act outside of their assigned tasks, risking reprimands or worse-- was it not unpleasant to be recognized as inadequate? Doctor Ayo, one of Zimmer's subordinates, told him that a synth not finding fulfillment and pleasure in being praised and seeing to their assigned tasks was one of the potential flaws that could come up in production. Indeed, the doctor continued, A3-21 was a remarkable specimen specifically because he didn't exhibit those flaws, in spite of being one of the more complex models the Institute had produced.

So it was contentment that followed A3-21 as he approached the teleporter - contentment in knowing that he was exceptional and praiseworthy, in bowing his head to the humans that passed him in those pristine white halls and knowing that it wasn't _just_ the sharply contrasting black uniform that had them nodding back - and headed out for his next mission, his plasma rifle firmly in hand and a stealth field generator strapped to his arm.

The target's designation was C5-91. She was to be undamaged, if possible. Her last known location was the human slum known as Goodneighbor; she had been missing long enough to have undergone a possible memory wipe and facial reconstruction.

Exiting the ruins of the old Commonwealth Institute of Technology, A3-21 made his way southward into Boston proper. The route was circuitous, but his navigational software was top-of-the-line, and he'd been on enough surface missions to know the safest, quickest path to his destination given the terrain and the local penchant for violence.

Any Courser mission was twofold: tracking down the target was one thing, but it was also stressed that they avoid being damaged if possible. Repairs were more complicated for specialized models, and sometimes a model like A3-21 would be so heavily modified and customized that fabricating an adequately performing replacement model was next to impossible. The hunt still came first, but in A3-21's case, he was permitted to abandon it if his personal safety were put in jeopardy.

He had yet to exercise that particular privilege. So far, he hadn't needed to.

It took him two hours, twenty-one minutes, and eight seconds to get to Goodneighbor's front gate. Once he was in position, he ducked in the back of a wrecked van so that he was out of view, and settled in to wait. He had avoided using the stealth field generator up to that point; if he wanted to get into Goodneighbor undetected, he was going to need it.

Time was nothing and everything. He had to be patient and wait for someone else to open the front gate so he could slip in behind them - something that could easily take many hours - but once the stealth field was enabled he'd have an hour to complete the mission and get back out again unnoticed. He could not allow his mind to wander or give his attention room to drift. Goodneighbor was a known Railroad hotspot, while also being well-defended by one of the local gangs. If they spotted and attacked him, he would be forced to fight back. He would rather avoid direct confrontation if possible.

So he waited. One hour passed. Two. Three. Time ticked by in steady increments that he kept track of as only a machine could. Four hours. Five.

Ten minutes and forty-four seconds into the sixth hour, a trader stepped into view down the road and turned towards Goodneighbor, humming a tune to herself. A3-21 shifted so that his finger hovered over the button that would activate the stealth field. The instant she reached the door, he tapped that button-- and then he was nothing more than a shimmer of barely-visible warped air as he left his hiding place to follow her, to make his way inside before the door had a chance to drift shut.

He had one hour.

Down the alley, into the shadows he went, going over potential places where a synth might take refuge based on what intel he had. The Memory Den was too obvious, and he doubted a synth in hiding could stay there for long. The hotel was equally as obvious, not to mention the fact that it charged those who wished to stay there a rather substantial fee which a synth might have trouble coming up with. The state house was run and owned by the same local gang that handled security, and likely wouldn't welcome a newcomer so easily.

Which left the shops up front, and the old metro station that had been converted into a bar. A3-21 ran a quick calculation in his head of the probabilities, and what he came up with took him down the alley and into the metro station. Only the newest model synths could properly metabolize alcohol; another Courser might not think to look in the bar, thinking it too human a place for a synth to be. Therefore, the bar was the most likely place that C5-91 could be found.

It wasn't hard to slip past the half-asleep ghoul bouncer. A3-21 noted with some satisfaction that it didn't even seem like he'd been noticed once on the way in. He was confident as he headed down the stairs, silent and invisible.

At first, the music that reached his ears was simply data. Background noise to his mission. He barely even registered it consciously. But then--

Then, he reached the bottom of the stairs. And he heard a voice. It pierced him. Caught his attention and hooked it. He had heard voices raised in numerous ways, pitched and bent and broken with what he thought to be a malfunction of emotion.

But this?

 _If I didn't care_  
More than words can say--  
If I didn't care  
Would it feel this way?

A3-21 stared; it was an action entirely outside of the mission parameters. The woman in the corner of the room, standing in front of the microphone in a blue (4b4b8c) sequin dress, was modulating her voice with a consistency of tone that made him wonder a great many things he'd never wondered about before.

_If this isn't love_  
_then why do I thrill?_

Was this a thing humans did?

_And why does my head go round and round_  
_while my heart stands still?_

Why? Was it not unnatural for them to force their voices into a more consistent state? Was that not why the Institute had implemented software in their synths to mimic natural human speech patterns?

_If I didn't care_  
_would it be the same?_

The consistency this woman achieved was remarkable for a human. It had to be physically impossible. Surely she was the one he was hunting.

_Would my every prayer begin and end_  
_with just your name?_

But the humans in the room-- they were staring. Some of them had a wetness in their eyes that A3-21 recognized as tears. They were... Affected. As if there was something praiseworthy, something worth their emotions, in a synth. In a performance that a synth would be inherently better suited for.

_And would I be sure that this_  
_is love beyond compare?_

Could A3-21 modulate his voice in such a manner? He was certain that he could. He could make music, such as what played as background noise on the Institute's broadcast that carried the signal for the teleportation relay. He could make music with his voice, music that humans might see as being worth something.

_Would all this be true_  
_if I didn't care for you?_

The woman's eyes scanned the smoke-filled, alcohol-smelling room, and for a fraction of an instant A3-21 imagined that she might have seen him. But the moment passed as quickly as it had come; he hadn't moved during her performance, so the outline of his stealth field would be quite invisible. He was impossible to spot without heat sensors, and C5-91 hadn't been equipped with them.

Had he thought she might have seen him because he-- _wanted_ her to?

No. That wasn't. Of course he hadn't. Synths were not made to want things. Wanting was a subset of individuality, of self-determination. It was a malfunction. A flaw. A3-21 was fully functional and without flaw. He was the best of his line. He wanted for nothing.

When C5-91 came down from the stage and slipped into the back room after her music ended, A3-21 silently trailed after her. Coldly, impassively, he slid in behind her and pressed the end of his rifle's barrel to the curve of her back, his other arm looping around her neck. She didn't have a chance to do more than gasp before he murmured the code-phrase that caused her to fall limp in his arms.

He took her back to the Institute to be rewritten. Another flawless mission completed by A3-21. But the praise from Zimmer sounded wrong to him, bringing none of the usual satisfaction. Because C5-91 would never make music again.

And when he tried to modulate his voice like she had and a human caught him doing it, he was given a peculiar look and reprimanded.

 


End file.
